


Opposite of Ordinary

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Dean's not a hunter, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Slow Build, bar romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a Winchester walks into a bar… and gets a lot more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposite of Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com) too, babes! Come send me more prompts.

Dean was still shaking when he put the Impala in park.

Crowley’s was a dumpy bar six miles from Dean’s shitty apartment; it was run down and seedy but the whiskey stung and the music was good so Dean kept coming. Plus, they had a pool table and really good nachos. It was the only place Dean could go when he was having a rough night, and this one might have been the roughest he’d ever seen.

Dean’s parents were officially divorced.

He had barely even gotten off the phone with his mother before he was in the car, heading for the bar. He didn’t even feel the December chill as he staggered across the parking lot, still gripping his cellphone tight in his palm. He drove the whole way there with the damn window down.

_Merry fucking Christmas, your family is split up for good._

He took his usual seat at the end of the bar with a dazed look on his face, placing his cellphone four inches from his right wrist. Just in case someone called. Though he wasn’t placing any bets on his Dad, and he hadn’t gotten a single text from Sam. Dean knows that Mary called his little brother first - he’d always been better at handling change, so of course Sam had to know.

But Dean wasn’t going to call him. He would rather wait.

The bar tender working that night was not a regular, but he was cute. Like, _really attractive_ , and it was truly a testament to the shittiness of Dean’s night that it didn’t perk him up one bit. The guy gave him a quick little smile, just a hint of one really, as Dean plopped down on the barstool. “Whiskey,” he ground out between his teeth. “Neat.”

“Of course,” the guy replied, easy as you please, sliding a glass Dean’s way. Dean snatched up and drained it in the blink of an eye, barely setting it down at all before asking for a refill.

The bar tender eyed him for a moment before dragging the glass back. “Are you… feeling alright?” he asked, blue eyes sparking even in the dim light of the bar.

Dean ticked his head to the side and barked a laugh. “Absolutely.” He took the glass directly from the guy’s hand this time; calloused fingers brushing against this man’s smooth ones, like he’d never worked a day in his life. It made Dean want to scoff, not maybe climb over the bar and find out just how smooth those hands really were.

The guy’s brow crinkled like he couldn’t imagine someone having a bad day in a _dive bar_. “What’s the matter?” he asked kindly.

Dean gulped down his whiskey and shook his head as he swallowed, swirling the extra little bit around the bottom. “Oh no. I’m not gonna whine about my bullshit problems to the bartender.”

The man shrugged and picked up some pint glasses, eyeing the couple at the other end of the bar that could probably use some refills on their lager. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind,” he offered, purposefully leaving the sentence hanging. With a flourish that sent his apron’s waist ties whirling, the bartender left Dean to his drinking alone. And good riddance.

 

A few drinks later and Dean still couldn’t stop checking his phone. He just… well, maybe he really did want someone to talk to. He wanted to hear from Sam, but more than that, anyone but Sam. Nothing fazed his little brother, not with the tumultuous childhood they’d had – parents constantly fighting not limited to flying dinner plates and slamming doors, big brother constantly getting into fights at school, getting picked on for being smaller than the other kids – and if Sam called him to commiserate it would only end in a reality check that would make Dean even crankier.

As if on cue, the bartender came back. “Another?” he asked with a gesture to Dean’s mostly empty glass.

Dean didn’t make direct eye contact as he pursed his lips and nodded, leaning his elbows onto the lip of the bar. The bartender leaned over to grab Dean’s glass, and Dean risked a glance upwards. He was being watched by kind blue eyes, clear as day. “I really the hate the holidays,” he felt compelled to say.

The bartender honest to God looks like he should be grinning, but his lips only twitched before he ducked his head. Presumably to hide that smug smirk of his. “Oh? Why’s that?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Always feels like everyone around you’s happy, only you never are. I guess it’s all the family stuff.” What he didn’t say was that he felt like eating his daddy’s .45 caliber Colt every time he passed by the skating rink and saw the little kids with their parents, bundled up and beaming, but he figured that it was pretty obvious with his clear drinking problem and the permanent, unsociable scowl on his face.

The bartender shrugged. “I suppose it can be hard dwelling on the troubles of a broken household,” he said diplomatically, too stiff to be casual (though Dean did shove some heavy shit his way). “But it can’t be all that bad.”

Oh, but he had no idea. His family had fallen apart under his watch, the worst part of course being that neither John nor Mary seemed all that torn up about it. They’d been split up for years, but Dean had always hoped they’d figure it out. He was so sure his parents would come to their senses, realize they were better as a team, if only for the sake of their kids. In fact, his dad seemed just fine shacking up with his new girlfriend Kate and their son, Adam, who’s got the childhood and the father Dean never had but always wanted. Mom was also perfectly unaffected by the divorce, taking knitting classes and baking and tending her garden. She went to wine tastings with some girlfriends on the weekends.

Nobody but Dean seemed to even _care_ that his family was broken. Nobody but Dean was stuck hurting and grasping at straws, left adrift.

“They built a whole _life_ together,” Dean despaired, shaking his head and not caring if he was making any sense. “They raised two children together. They could at least pretend that it all _meant something_ , you know?” he asked, raising the glass to his lips again.

His bleary eyes rolled over the bartender’s nametag – Castiel – as the man nodded to him. He had braced his hands on the bar and leaned over as Dean continued to talk, listened to every word carefully and considerately, nodding and frowning in all the right places. At the end of it, he took a breath and cocked his head like a bird, before apparently thinking better of it and closing his mouth.

“What?” Dean asked, skeptical of Castiel’s worried expression.

Castiel considered him. “You mother and father are… learning themselves. You said they dated in high school?”

Dean nodded. “Mom got knocked up when she was young.”

Castiel shrugged like that explained everything. “Dean, your parents had to be adults early in life. And they were expected to do it all together. Your mother’s parents wouldn’t have helped them,” he said logically. It was true; Grandpa Samuel and Grandma Deanna hated John, and they hated that Mary had gotten pregnant so young.

“They were doing this on their own, and that’s a lot of pressure on new parents who were barely old enough to _vote_ , let alone raise a family.”

Dean frowned. “My parents were in love.”

“And people change,” Castiel told him reasonably. “Oftentimes for the better. They’re getting the chance to find themselves now, Dean. They’re making great personal strides.” He paused, tilting his head again. “Just… not together. That doesn’t mean they don’t care about what they built in the past.”

Dean was about to object when Castiel opened his mouth again. “Isn’t it more important that they’re happy?”

Dean closed his mouth slowly and locked his jaw. Castiel was right, couldn’t deny it. And boy did he want to. No one wants to be told his childhood was a sham.

“So what does that make me? I’m the problem, right? Tying everybody down to a life they don’t want?” Dean asked, shoulders slumping. As soon as he said it, he believed it. _I’m the problem._

Castiel shook his head rapidly. “Dean, _no_. It’s not you at all,” he promised. “Your parents are surely very proud of you.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, real proud. Look at me,” he said, like that would change his mind.

Castiel stayed firm. “I am,” he insisted. “Looking at you,” he clarified after a moment, a pretty blush rising up on his cheeks.

Dean watched it spread up his face, and as Castiel cleared his throat a little to dispel any tension, Dean’s lips curled up in a lazy smile. “Thanks, Cas,” he slurred.

 

Dean was back exactly a week later, sick of drinking alone in his apartment, and much to his delight Castiel was still working the bar. He smiled when Dean came in, and Dean even raised his hand in a little wave before plunking down at the bar again. This time, though, he wasn’t looking to get too smashed. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel rumbled in his gargles-with-gravel timbre.

Dean smiled at him. “Hey, Cas.”

He remembered Dean’s drink and slid one over without even needing to ask. “Have you spoken to Sam recently?” he asked, wiping down a section of impeccably clean wood just to the right of Dean’s elbow. “He must be anxious about final exams coming up soon.”

Dean appreciated the gesture Cas made of asking, showing he remembered Dean’s petty crisis. “I have, actually,” he replied, and proceeded to talk Cas’s ear off about criminal law and constitutional doctrine – or what he could understand from Sam’s ramblings.

He told him about the banana bread recipe his mother had forwarded earlier in the week – and how he wasn’t competitive at all, nope, not Dean, in making one that would make her eyes roll back in her head for Christmas dinner.

“So you’re spending the holidays with her?” Cas asked.

Dean shrugged. “Well her, and Bobby and Ellen and Jo,” he said. He sipped his glass of beer, having switched sometime in his storytelling – liquor before beer, you’re in the clear – and paused suddenly. He got as far as, “Wait, have I told you about Bobby?” before he started up again, explaining how his surrogate uncle had cared for them growing up. It was Bobby after all – not John –who taught Dean how to throw a baseball.

“Their daughter, Jo, is like the little sister I never wanted,” he told him.

Castiel smiled. “Does that mean you’re foregoing presents?” he asked. “Although I hear it _is_ customary to get one’s siblings some sort of… ‘gag gift,’” he said, forming little air quotes with his fingers.

“Oh you hear that, huh?” Dean chuckled a little bit. He leaned forward to catch Cas’s eye (though he’d never really had to try hard for that, it seemed). “Got any suggestions?”

Castiel shrugged. “She’s your sister, not mine. Perhaps some novelty addition to her knife collection,” he suggested, half joking.

Cas couldn’t possibly know that Jo actually _did_ have a knife collection, because Dean had never told him about that, but the fact that he nailed Joanna so perfectly caused him to double over in laughter. “You may be onto something there, Cas,” he told him once he’d regained the ability to breathe. When Dean thought about it, it really wasn’t a bad idea.

“And what about Sam?”

Dean shrugged. “Figured I’d get him some nerdy book and a Barbie doll or something,” he said, sipping his beer again. He smirked. “Elle Woods Barbie.”

Castiel tilted his head, his typical gesture when he didn’t understand something Dean said, and frowned. “Who?”

Dean waved a hand. “‘S a movie, Cas. Not important.” He thought about something for a moment and tilted his head himself. “Hey, Cas, what are _your_ holiday plans?”

Castiel shrugged and didn’t make eye contact, eyes focused on his work. “I’m not sure yet. Excuse me.” And then he was gone, serving some other patrons away from Dean’s seat in the corner. Dean stared after him feeling like a ditched date and sipped his beer again. It was clear Cas didn’t want to talk about his family – or for that matter, maybe a lack of one – anymore than Dean had.

Castiel came back moments later, eyes clear of any storminess. “Will your father be attending dinner with all of you, do you think?” he asked politely. Not wanting to push his new (friend? Were they friends?), Dean took the question for what it was and answered. By asking, Cas had effectively steered the conversation away from himself enough that Dean got caught up in himself again, just like a good bartender does.

Yes, John would be coming for dinner, with a new sobriety chip in his pocket. Kate and Adam would be staying with the other Milligans down in Minnesota. Dean had mixed feelings about the reunion.

What he didn’t have _any_ mixed feelings about was the man across from him, methodically polishing silverware. Dean had thought Cas was gorgeous when he first laid eyes on him, and he was right. Messy, dark hair, bright and concerned baby blues that Dean was just a sucker for, long lines and angles and coiled strength. And he actually seemed to _like_ Dean, which was an exciting prospect.

Oh, was he in trouble.

Dean packed up and left again at closing when the bar was practically empty – though the place was pretty deserted to begin with come to think of it. Cas offered to walk Dean to his car like a gentleman and Dean saw absolutely reason to object; besides, he relishes the chance to show off his baby.

He waited for Cas by the staff entrance to a backroom as he whipped off his apron on the way in, and his white collared shirt rode up a little in the back as he bent over to stick it away. One strip of tanned skin and Dean was sent into some sort of heart condition, flushing from his freckles down.

So he may have developed a crush on the attentive bartender, even though they’d only bumped hands exchanging drinks and tips and even though Dean literally didn’t know anything about the guy.

The thought made him quiet on the way out as Castiel chatted idly about the succulent he planned on adopting at some indeterminate point in time. Dean found it odd how few details Castiel chose to share with him. And even though Cas seemed to be purposefully secretive with him, he felt guilty and a little angry with himself. Someone like Cas deserved to be appreciated, you know?

Cas declined Dean’s offer for a lift home, but he waved as Dean pulled out of the parking lot. Dean’s eyes stuck to the rearview mirror as he drove away, leaving his own personal angel standing against a fluorescent city backdrop, overcoat limp and damp in the night air.

He tried not to linger on how much he’d wanted to kiss him when they said goodbye.

 

Dean walked into the bar with all the bluster and purpose of a solider. He was not about to be distracted. He looked hastily around the bar for a flash of tan, a green apron, messy hair, but he didn’t see him. A girl that Dean had met a few times before in the bar, whose name he was pretty sure was Tess or Tessa or something like that, seemed to be covering his shift. She was swirling a rusty-red rag around in a pint glass, and Dean plopped down on the stool directly in front of her. “Hey there, stud,” she greeted playfully.

“Hey,” Dean replied politely. He wasn’t in the mood to flirt. “Do you know if Castiel is working tonight?” he asked her.

Tessa – thank God for nametags, seriously – stifled a little snort. “ _Castiel_?” she asked. “What, did you just make that up?”

Dean blinked and shook his head. Maybe they all know him by _Cas_ here. “Yeah, Cas? He’s uh, about yea high with dark hair, blue eyes? Trench coat? He was working Thursday,” he probed, holding his hand out at eye level.

Tessa frowned. “Buddy, the bar’s not even open on Thursdays. It’s our night off. You feelin’ alright?”

What? Not open? Dean’s mouth dropped open slightly. “But. Thursday.”

“Nobody by that name works here, Handsome. Sorry.”

Dean literally could not believe what he was hearing. This had to be a joke. Was he being had? Tessa had a good sense of humor, maybe she was just joking around.

Then again, maybe Dean was just going crazy. Stress of the divorce and all that.

“You’re _sure_ ,” Dean checked.

Tessa nodded slowly and tossed her rag over her shoulder. “You want me to call someone for you?” she asked, reaching to the phone under the bar. Clearly she was wondering if Dean had started this night of drinking a little early.

Dean shook his head and scrambled to stand up. “No. No, no. I’ll just. Uh – yeah,” he blurted, shuffling out of the bar with his tail between his legs.

He climbed into the Impala and just stared at the emblem in the center of the steering wheel. He stayed like that for a solid twelve minutes before getting it together.

The whole way home, he was unsettled. How could a man he’d had more than one meaningful conversation with never even be real in the first place? Did he dream him up? Did he even go out on Thursday? Jesus, what the fuck was happening to him?

How was it possible that Castiel no longer existed?

In the front hallway of his apartment, he weighed his keys in his hand, scowling at the floor. He would try again the next night, when he knew Tessa wasn’t supposed to be working. If one more person told him he was making shit up, he’d check himself into a clinic. Seriously.

The phone rang just as a horrific flashback to One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest started. He shook his head, set down his keys, and picked up the phone. He cleared his throat. “Uh, hello?”

“Hi, honey!” the voice on the line chirped back. Despite his odd evening, all the tension slid out of Dean’s shoulders and he actually managed a smile.

“Hi, Mom,” he said warmly. “How’re things?” he asked, leaning against his kitchen counter.

His mother made an excited noise over the phone. “Everything’s good here! Sam stopped by today. He can’t wait to see you. Honestly, the holidays make such a little kid out of him.”

Dean remembered a very bleary-eyed, gap-toothed Sam Winchester Christmas morning, circa 1995. He smiled. “I believe it.”

“Are you getting packed? If you’re late, Ash will eat all the pie and I don’t want you to throw a fit.”

“Mom,” Dean groaned. “I’ll be on time, I promise.”

“Alright, I know. I just worry is all. Don’t forget to bring along some gossip, too,” Mary requested slyly.

Usually Dean would roll his eyes and explain to his mother that nothing particularly exciting was happening down on his end, and she’d get all huffy about working too hard, which would dissolve into a sad talk about how lonely Dean was. Tonight, he had something to prove to himself, and a mother as good as Dean’s shouldn’t be upset over the holidays, especially considering the latest family development. “Actually, I… met someone,” he said, the sentence coming out half-garbled. It wasn’t a lie, not really. At least, he _hoped_ it wasn’t.

There was silence on the other end. “Dean, are you messing with me?” Mary asked suspiciously.

“No,” he said defensively. “His name’s Cas.”

His mother squeaked. “Dean!”

Dean murmured comfortingly into the phone. “Mom, Mom. It’s not serious yet, ok? Calm down.”

“Dean, if you weren’t absolutely smitten you wouldn’t even bother telling me.”

Dean had to give his mother that point.

“So what’s he like?”

Dean groaned softly, but he was slowly losing control of the small smile worming its way onto his face. Just thinking about Castiel and hearing the relief in his mother’s voice that her son wasn’t defective was enough to lift his mood like it hasn’t been in days. “He’s great, Mom. You’d like him. Dark hair, blue eyes.”

“Sounds dreamy,” his mother replied smugly.

“He is.”

There was a little pause between them, and then Mary exhaled. “Well I can’t wait to hear about him. Unless… you’re bringing him along?” she asked hopefully.

Dean hesitated. “Uh, I wouldn’t count on it. I told you, it’s not serious.” _I don’t even know if he’s REAL._

Mary tsked. “One of these days you’ll bring someone home and all hell will break loose.”

They hadn’t even met Lisa, and Dean had been with her for a whole year. The stress of his parents’ separation and the conceptions that Dean had about marriage had really forced them apart, and Dean didn’t want his mother to feel guilty for Dean’s inability to sustain more than one relationship at a time. “Jo will be heartbroken,” she laughed, oblivious.

“Please,” Dean scoffed. “Jo’s been over me since she took off the training wheels.”

“Mhm,” his mother murmured half-heartedly. “Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, honey. I just wanted to check in.”

Dean smiled to himself. He could deny it all he wanted, but at heart he was a Momma’s boy and he knew it. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Tell Cas I said hello.”

Dean nodded to himself. “Sure, Mom. I’ll tell him.”

“Love you, Peach.”

“Love you, Mom.”

The phone clicked dead.

Dean replaced it in the cradle and hung his head, scrubbing a hand down his face.

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned lightly. He was losing his damn mind. What was he thinking, mentioning Cas to his mother? She’d be heartbroken. Dean just missed the attention – that was it. Those eyes stared right into him like they saw through him, like they were picking apart his very soul. Castiel spoke to Dean like his problems mattered to him, and it wasn’t like no one had bothered to give a shit before, but this guy had some sort of otherworldly calm to him. His temperament and his gruff voice were like balms on Dean’s worried conscience, and so sue him if he longed for it again.

Dean could count the number of times they’d met on one hand, but he just couldn’t get the guy out of his head. “What am I doing,” he muttered to himself, before steepling his fingers in front of his nose. Fuck it, he was committed now, and he wasn’t going to be embarrassed by what was about to happen.

“Ok, um, hey there, Big Man,” he said to the empty air in his kitchen. He took a deep breath through his mouth and shook his head slightly incredulously. _Can’t believe I’m doing this._ “I know we haven’t talked for a while… Sorry ‘bout that. Been busy, and I’m guessing so have you.”

Dean sighed and made an exasperated little twitch with his arms, splaying his palms against the counter and abandoning whatever formal dignity he thought he might have been able to counterfeit. “Look, this is gonna sound crazy, maybe, and I know I couldn’t really count on you in the past, but could you just do me a solid and send me some sort of sign?” he rushed out all at once, words knocking into one another like kids at a grade school basketball game. “I’m looking for this guy – I’m starting to think I just made him up – and he’s kind of important to me. So I’d appreciate it if you could… you know…” he sighed again. “Send him my way,” he muttered, finished. He waited for a moment, and of course, nothing happened.

“This is stupid,” he groused. He stood and pushed away from the counter, padding into his bedroom. He stripped his jeans ferociously, keeping his t-shirt on, with a bitter sort of resentment. Disgruntled, he rolled onto his side and curled into his pillow. “What was I expecting, some kind of Christmas miracle?” he muttered.

With a long-suffering exhale, Dean shut his eyes tight. He fell asleep, and he didn’t dream at all.

 

When Dean blinked his eyes open in the morning, it was only because he was chasing a pair of blue eyes, the dream fading as quickly as the memory. Reluctantly shaking the dream away completely, Dean threw off his sheets and swung his legs around to the side of the bed. The hardwood floor was cold underneath Dean’s feet, and he shivered violently once before standing, rubbing his arms absentmindedly as he puttered around looking for his long, fluffy robe (a gag gift from Sam one year that to his brother’s complete _horror_ Dean absolutely adored). He tied the front strings loosely and rubbed his eyes again, shuffling through his dingy apartment towards the kitchen. An omelet sounded pretty good, didn’t it? Some mushrooms and fresh tomatoes, sausage if he had any. Oh, there might be some links still in the meat drawer from last weekend.

He rubbed his eyes blearily and glanced around his living room. Charlie’s housewarming fichus was still leafy and alive, the windows were shut and locked like he left them, the couch he’d had since high school was still blue, Cas had the television remote in his hand and was squinting at the TV, great, everything appeared to be in –

Wait. Back the fuck up.

Dean did a double take and smashed his hip against a side table, nearly knocking over a lamp. “Cas?” he croaked, fumbling for the piece of furniture.

“Good morning, Dean,” the man replied, not looking up from the TV. Dean could see now that it was some sort of nature documentary. “Did you sleep well?”

Dean gaped. There, perched on his ratty blue couch like he fucking owned the place was Castiel the mythical bartender.

The man finally looked up with a kind smile on his face, hiding a trace of shyness he’s never seen on him before.

“Dude, whatare you doing in my house?” he asked, a little hysterical. He knew he asked for a sign, but _geez._ This was kind of hitting him over the head with it.

Oh my god, did Dean have a stalker? Tessa said he didn’t work at the bar. And here he was, in Dean’s house. Jesus, shit, Dean was getting turned into a skin suit.

Castiel blinked in response to Dean’s question. “I, um, heard your prayer.”

Dean frowned, not understanding. “My what?” he asked. “How the hell did you even –”

“Dean, there’s something I should tell you,” Castiel interrupted.

Dean sputtered. “Well yeah, no shit. What the hell are you, some sort of creepy prowler?”

Castiel didn’t flinch at the accusation. “I’m your guardian angel,” he said simply. Which, ok, what.

Dean’s reaction was instant. “Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitched up in a familiar way, like he had been expecting this response. “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.”

On the plate glass window behind him, shadows of great, hulking wings flashed up – glorious, black, beautiful – and all the lights in Dean’s apartment blew out simultaneously.

Dean’s head was officially spinning.

He stood on the edge of the living room and took a minute to absorb things, but his brain was rejecting it all and Dean felt like he was going to pass out at any second. “It is too god damn early for this,” he decided, stomping into his kitchen, intent on making his stupid omelet regardless.

“I have to say, I’m surprised you grew so attached to me in such a short period of time,” Castiel replied, as if he was pleasantly surprised. He was following him into the kitchen, stupid trench coat swirling around his knees, and then he took a seat at the counter. “What are you doing?” he inquired curiously when Dean didn’t respond.

“Making breakfast,” Dean answered grumpily, slamming the skillet down on the range. “Would you like something to eat? Is that something that angels _do?_ ” he snapped sarcastically. He thumped his forehead dully against the cabinets. “Christ,” he grunted.

“You’re taking this well,” Castiel remarked, annoyingly earnest.

Dean gripped the spatula like he’d grip a knife and half turned towards Castiel. “I called the bar, you know,” he told him, lying just a little. He’d never admit to sneaking out and _asking for Cas_ like he was some sort of gentleman caller. “They said they don’t _have_ any employee named ‘Castiel,’” he accused. “They were two words short of calling the police on me.”

Castiel had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “I knew you were having a bad night. I figured you could use some company.”

Dean spluttered. “So you decided to play bartender for a night?”

“It’s healthy to _talk to someone,_ Dean, and bartenders are viewed as trustworthy with strangers’ secrets,” he recited, like he was reading out of a textbook on Human Behavior. “And I could also keep an eye on your drinking to make sure you were safe in the event of an accident.”

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Great. Thank you. Well, you kept your… charge safe, and now you can go home, right?” Forget trying to get to know the guy.

Castiel fidgeted. “I was… hoping you would ask me to stay,” he confessed quietly.

Dean froze, egg poised over the lip of his skillet, moments away from destruction. “What,” he replied tonelessly.

Castiel shifted again. “I was hoping you’d ask me to stay,” the angel repeated. Fuck, _angel._ “I’ve grown quite fond of you, Dean, and I know the holidays aren’t easy for you –”

“No,” Dean interrupted, cracking his egg and scraping at it angrily with the spatula. “I told that to a nice, anonymous, good-looking guy providing alcohol. I did _not_ tell that to a freaking pigeon.” Castiel’s eyes darkened, and Dean barreled on. “You can stay for breakfast, but then you’re out of here.”

“You think I’m good looking?”

“Cas, _shut up_.”

Castiel seemed intent on pursuing the matter further, but something in Dean’s glare seemed to stop the protests in his throat. He closed his mouth and slumped down in his chair, coat folding in around him pathetically.

He didn’t say anything else until Dean slapped some eggs on a plate with the slightly burned toast – somewhere in his mind Dean was a teensy bit embarrassed about handing an honest to god angel of the lord burnt toast and soggy eggs – and even then it was only a, “Thank you, Dean,” which Dean returned with an eye roll.

“I’ve got to put some real clothes on. You stay here and don’t… just don’t touch anything, alright?” Dean pleaded.

Cas nodded and poked at his eggs. Satisfied that the angel would be sufficiently entertained at least until he got back, Dean walked back into his bedroom and leaned his head against the door.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

He decided on a quick shower, since good water pressure always makes Dean feel better. By the time he stepped back out into the rest of the apartment, he caught Castiel hanging up the phone with a pleased little grin on his face.

“Dude, did the phone ring?” Dean asked, glancing between his wacky houseguest and the telephone furtively.

Castiel nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, picking through a car magazine on the kitchen counter, head tilted and frowning.

Dean groaned. “Cas, you can’t answer my phone!” God, they could be a sitcom. Dean could practically hear the laugh track as his heart rate skyrocketed.

“But it was your mother,” Cas told him. “I assumed you didn’t want to let her call go unanswered.”

Dean froze. “My mother?”

“Yes, she sounds very nice.”

“You talked to my _mom?_ ” Dean asked, voice going shrill. “What did she say?”

Castiel smiled a little. “She said it was nice to hear from me and she can’t wait to meet me, assuming you’ll allow me to attend dinner. Apparently I’m expected. She promised to make pineapple upside down cake but I’m not quite sure what that is. How does one make a cake upside down? Does that improve it?” he asked.

Dean resisted the impulse to thud his head against the wall.

Looked like Castiel, Angel of the Lord, was coming for Christmas. If Mary Campbell had anything to say about it.

 

Luckily, Dean still had a couple of days before he loaded his overnight bag and his angel into his car to join his family for the holidays. _Not your angel_ , his brain would hiss at him. _Well, he_ is, another part of Dean would argue. _Guardian, remember?_ And that would never not be weird. So his mother was right all those years? Angels really were watching over him?

Most of these days were spent teaching Cas how to be more… human. Look, Dean doesn’t do this lightly, ok? If he was going to be introducing somebody to his _mother_ , then he was going to a) be on his best behavior, b) cleaned up and nice smelling, and most importantly c) the perfect gentleman, boyfriend, and overall human being.

Cas had exactly one of these things going for him, Dean discovered. The dude smelled like ozone and rain and Old Spice, like comfort and arousal all at once. He was clean-shaven and aside from only owning one outfit, pretty well put together.

But Cas had a problem with asking inappropriate questions, not quite understanding personal space boundaries – don’t worry, Dean was very quick to correct him – and just generally being a little off kilter. He squinted at everything. He knocked things over. There was something so obviously alien about him that Dean was convinced they’d be doomed. He’d ruin Christmas.

“So, Cas,” Dean began one day, mug of coffee cradled between both of his hands on one end of the couch. “What is that angels do for fun? Spy on celebrities? Baseball on Jupiter? Casual time travel?” he asked, sipping from his mug to punctuate his question.

Castiel shook his head with a fond little smile. “Humans have wonderful imaginations. No, nothing like that. In fact, I think Heaven would be most accurately described as a large office complex. There are garrisons that accomplish tasks given to us by our superiors, and then we move on to the next thing,” he explained.

Dean considered this. “So there really is one? A Heaven?”

Castiel nodded. “Of course there is, Dean.”

“Does that mean…”

Castiel nodded somberly. “Hell too,” he confirmed.

Dean took a deep breath through his nose, digesting this information. “And a God?”

Cas actually chuckled, his nose scrunching up a little bit as he did so, and _goddammit_ that wasn’t cute. “Yes, there’s a God, too. Though he hasn’t been seen in some time, I’m afraid.”

“Hm.” Dean went back to sipping his coffee and thought about what to ask him next. “So, you got any great wisdom for me?” he asked. “Proverbs or something?”

Cas tilted his head in a way that Dean had quickly begun to learn meant that Cas was thinking about something very hard, and the angel turned to meet his eyes. “It is not my place,” he said slowly. “I think you are doing a very good job as a human, Dean,” he said seriously, so Dean knew he meant it.

Dean scoffed, uncomfortable, and lowered his eyes to the swirling liquid in his mug. His stupid reflection was glaring at him through the cup, and Dean found he couldn’t look _anywhere_ without feeling put on the spot. “Well thanks,” he muttered lamely, downing the rest of his coffee. Empty mug in hand, he stood and went to the kitchen to rinse it out and put it away. “Want anything from the kitchen?”

“Angels do not require sustenance,” Castiel recited.

“But you _can_ eat things, can’t you?” Dean asked.  
Castiel frowned. “Why would I do that?”

Dean sighed exasperatedly. “Dude, we’re going to my mom’s house for _Christmas_. You have to eat everything she gives you, and you have to LIKE IT. That’s like Rule Number 1 of Winchester holidays,” Dean rambled, pulling things down from his cabinets. “Come here and try this.”

And that was how they spent Tuesday: Dean cooking up every possible thing in his fridge and spoon-feeding Castiel before rushing off to find something else he might like. Each reaction was generally the same dry response of, “Tastes like molecules,” but occasionally Castiel would stop chewing for a moment and respond, “These molecules are combined in a very interesting way,” and Dean would count that as a win.

They didn’t have time to go shopping, so Dean just threw some flannel and jeans at him at some point in the day and instructed him to change. He fingered the edge of the trench coat like he couldn’t understand what was wrong with his current attire, but he did as Dean asked (right there in the middle of the living room, before Dean hurriedly directed him to the bathroom – though not before getting a quick peek at long tracks of tan skin and _whoa, nipples_ ).

They spent the afternoon watching a butt load of movies, which endlessly confused Cas, until Dean was yawning. “Man, I haven’t –” _had this much fun? Spent so much time with another human being? Watched that many bad movies in a row?_ “– in so long,” Dean said, choosing to let Castiel fill in the gap. He was surprisingly good at understanding Dean on a base level, no messy sentimental communication necessary. Like that time when Dean was trying to explain boundaries and Cas tilted his head and replied with, “But not with you. Because you’ve already told your mother we were… involved. And you like having me close to you.” Dean had made a big fuss about it, but truth was that Cas was dead on balls accurate with that one. It just freaked Dean out a little was all.

Castiel watched Dean stretch out on the couch and opened his mouth to ask, “Should I keep watching this?” he asked, gesturing to the TV. He was getting pretty good at gestures: rubbing the back of his neck, tapping his fingers against his thigh, shrugging, etc.

Dean snorted. “I mean, I guess. If you want to.” He froze, poised on the edge of the couch and ready to stand when a thought occurred to him. “Cas, do you sleep?”

Castiel shrugged. “Not usually. I can enter a temporary state of unconsciousness, but angels don’t technically need rest.”

Dean hummed and filed this information away for later, standing. “Well, keep it down ok? I need my four hours, so,” he said lamely, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to his bedroom.

Castiel flicked his eyes past Dean to the bedroom and nodded. “Of course.” Then he picked up the remote and clicked the volume down several notches until Dean could barely hear it just standing right there – bless special angel hearing – and smiled up at him. “Have pleasant dreams,” Cas wished him, turning back to the TV.

Dean stood there and just stared at him for a little bit. It was finally hitting him that an omniscient cosmic being was lounging around in borrowed jeans in front of Dean’s TV watching Pacific Rim and squinting to himself as he tried to understand. How could Dean have not noticed it before, how Cas’s eyes glittered with something so much vaster than just finite human experience?

Cas noticed that Dean was still standing there like a moron and looked up, confused. “Should I accompany you? I know your mother used to say –”

“No, you don’t have to… do that,” Dean blurted. Though it had crossed his mind. “What would you even do?” he asked.

Castiel ticked his head. “Watch you sleep, probably.”

“That’s creepy.”

“And preside over your dreams. Ward off nightmares and bad thoughts. Ensure you have a nice sleep. Any number of small comforts,” Cas added, seeming to shrink in on himself. “I would most likely just be in your way. I’m sure you have a routine,” he said, waving a hand by his head absent mindedly, the universal sign for ‘never mind.’

So Dean brushed it off, said, “Ok. Well, goodnight, buddy,” and then proceeded to panic in his room, because, _buddy_? He collapsed onto his bed and was perfectly comfortable, except for the fact that the freaking angel was still outside that door, with all his big blue eyes and his badass wings and his cute little eye wrinkles.

He walked back over to the door and pulled it back open. “Hey, Cas,” Dean called, heart pounding in his chest.

Castiel looked up from the television. “Yes?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to look embarrassed, to focus on making small gestures. “If you want to – I mean, we’ll probably be sharing a bed at my mom’s anyway – and I don’t want it to be weird but –”

Castiel just squinted at him. “Dean, please just be direct with me.”

Dean huffed out a breath. “Would you just get in here?”

Castiel looked stunned for a moment, but stood slowly nonetheless. “Alright.” He even remembered the shut off the TV.

Dean stomped back into his bedroom and groaned lightly, rubbing a hand over his face. He already knew how this was going to go: awkwardly and uncomfortably.

And he’d probably end up talking in his sleep or something equally embarrassing.

Castiel took his shoes off quietly and left them at the end of the bed, followed by the flannel over shirt Dean had lent him. “Keep your jeans on,” Dean instructed, panicking a little. “You don’t sleep anyway.”

“Of course,” Cas said, crawling into bed. And gee, how did he know which side Dean liked to sleep on? How could he _possibly_ know which spot Dean wanted him to fill?

Dean climbed in next to him and sighed, turning with his back away from the bright eyed angel. “Good night, Cas,” he grumbled into his pillow.

“Good night, Dean.”

Cas put a hand in his hair, and before Dean could even protest he was out like a light, stuck imagining dark wings wrapped tight around him.

 

They actually built up a nice routine after those first few disastrous days. Dean would wander into the kitchen, sleep mussed and grumbly, and Cas would already have coffee brewed. He didn’t know how to work the machine, but apparently he could just mojo the coffee done, and that was good enough for Dean.

Dean would make them both breakfast, practice for Cas and indulgence for Dean. Cas was riveted by the morning paper, and the neighbors were already over the shock of seeing a robed mystery man lurking around Dean’s apartment.

“Dean, I don’t understand. Why is Congress so unproductive?”

“Cuz they’re all dicks,” Dean would reply around a mouthful of Honey Nut Cheerios.

Cas would frown like that wasn’t a good answer, but he knew that was the best he was going to get so he’d continue to the sports pages (Cas was weirdly into baseball). “Is it not America’s favorite past time?” he asked once. Dean laughed so hard milk almost came out his nose.

Everything was new to him, and for some reason the one thing that fascinated him more than movies and sandwiches and baseball was Dean himself. It does stuff to a guy’s ego.

The fact that they were almost always nearly touching was driving Dean crazy. He wasn’t quite sure what the protocol for this was: his not-human-fake-boyfriend-but-actual-temporary-roommate? Who regularly slept with him. Platonically.

They had graduated to small touches by the time it was time to leave for Mary’s, the exception being the whole sleeping-together thing, which Dean refused to touch with a ten foot pole. Dean could clap Cas on the shoulder, touch his hip to move him out of the way so he could grab a bowl from the cabinet above their heads, shove him playfully when he said something funny.

Dean’s hand was twitching all the way to his old home, fingers restless and wrist too loose. He was tapping against the leather seat, and he could practically hear Castiel’s frustration. “Dean. It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” he protested.

Arriving at a decision, Castiel reached over and grabbed Dean’s hand. He intertwined their fingers, so that Dean wouldn’t have to tap so restlessly. He could just squeeze Cas’s hand. Dean was about to say something, because this warranted something being said, but Castiel beat him to it.

“This is the typical human gesture for offering comfort, right?” he asked, squinting.

Dean huffed a tiny laugh and he suddenly wanted to kiss him so bad he could barely stand it. He settled for rubbing his thumb up the back of Cas’s hand. “Yeah, Cas. This is the typical gesture.”

Castiel’s pleased little smile was everything Dean didn’t know he’d needed.

In a changing home dynamic, his first holiday as a child of divorce, at least he could count on his guardian angel to make him smile.

 

“Just, don’t embarrass me or anything, ok?” Dean groused, tugging insistently on Castiel’s hand to make sure he was paying attention.

“Of course, Dean.”

He rolled his eyes and knocked on the door.

It flew open faster than Dean could have thought possible, and suddenly he was staring down at a frenzied looking, rosy-cheeked Joanna Harvelle, who had _definitely_ grown up since he’d last seen her. “Dean!” she exclaimed, pulling him down for a hug with one arm. “Hey, Jo,” Dean replied, chuckling. He could only bend down so far, since he was still holding the angel’s hand.

She pulled back from the hug, grinning, and that was when she seemed to notice the stranger attached to Dean’s side. “Oh,” she said, looking to him for some sort of explanation.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, Jo, this is Cas,” he said, gesturing to the angel. “My, um…” _Shit, what is he anyway?_

Jo’s jaw dropped marginally. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Dean frowned. “Yeah,” he said suspiciously.

Castiel nodded kindly. “Nice to meet you, Jo,” he rumbled in his too-low voice, as if he hadn’t even noticed Jo’s rude behavior.

(Given his limited understanding of human customs he probably didn’t, now that Dean was thinking about it.)

“Uh, right,” Jo said, shaking herself. Her good mood had sobered significantly, and she waved the pair of them forward almost robotically. “I’ll call Sam and Ash up to help you with your bags.”

“Your brother?” Castiel asked Dean quietly. “I thought he was protesting this particular gathering,” he said as he hauled his duffle onto his shoulder.

Dean shrugged. “He’s just not happy Dad is coming. But he doesn’t want to punish himself _or_ the rest of the family for whatever grudge he’s still carrying,” Dean explained quietly, following Joanna into his mother’s house. She repainted the front hallway, Dean noticed. The house was barely recognizable with all the decorative changes she’d made since he’d last visited.

A blonde woman in a blue dress and a cinnamon-stained apron rounded the corner, curls bouncing and eyes crinkling around the corners with the faintest hint of wrinkles. “Dean!”

Dean broke out into a little grin. “Hey,” he greeted, holding his arms out. Mary stepped into his embrace and wrapped her arms up around his shoulders. “Geez, you’re big. I keep forgetting,” she mumbled against his chest.

He grinned into her hair and pulled back. She turned with a glint in her eyes, smirking slightly. “You must be Cas,” she said, sneaking a look at her eldest son. “Glad you could make it.”

Castiel had his head turned and was frowning at the Christmas tree in the living room – Dean noticed with utter mortification that the tree topper was an angel, complete with halo and robes and gaudy, glittering wings. After Mary had spoken, Castiel snapped his head around with some degree of chagrin and shook her hand. “Yes. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Winchester. You have a lovely home,” he said, polite as ever, like he’d rehearsed.

Dean wouldn’t put it past him.

Mary scoffed at him. “Cas, call me Mary. Even ‘Mom’s fine, if you’re comfortable,” she said, spinning and heading back into the kitchen. Dean flushed. “Dean, take his coat, won’t you?” she instructed. With a start, Dean helped Cas out of his tan overcoat and stuck it in the hall closet, subtly admiring the way Castiel pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows once he was divested of the outer garment. “Your brother is down in the basement, Dean. You should take Cas down and introduce everyone. Leave your stuff,” she instructed. Jo was hanging awkwardly in the doorway. She was practically twitching to escape to the basement.

It went better than Dean could have expected. Jo insisted on chatting a bit about their drive and what the weather was like when they left; all inane topics that he knew she was only resorting to because she was uncomfortable around Castiel. Which didn’t make much sense to Dean, personally; Cas was nothing but social around him and other patrons of his pretend workplace, even if there was something obviously _off_ about him. Cas genuinely enjoyed humanity, it just didn’t make sense that humanity wouldn’t love him right back.

Hell, even Dean was getting there.

Honestly, everyone seemed to be just as taken with Cas as Dean was. Lucky for Dean, Sam and Cas got along great. With his _millennia_ of knowledge, there was no shortage of stuff to talk about. Ash thought he was fascinating, poking and prodding at him until he could get a read on the guy. “He’s never even seen _Star Trek,_ Dean. What the hell do you even talk about?” he’d exclaimed, glancing over at him. Dean had merely shrugged, watching Castiel with a mix of awe and anxiety, wondering how on Earth a freaking angel of the Lord was perched on his mother’s couch playing Madden with his kid brother.

Bobby liked him just fine; he had a whole wealth of lore background and could speak enough Japanese that Bobby got to stretch his cultural muscles for a while. Ellen, like Mary, felt the need to mother and gush over him, praising his excellent manners and his immaculate presentation. “I should find Sam something similar for his job interviews! Castiel, where do you shop?”

Castiel, without Dean’s knowledge, had brought some choice liquor along with him – courtesy of Crowley’s – and Ellen just about kissed him. “Boy, you hang on to this one,” she told Dean giddily, dragging Bobby into the kitchen to mix everybody some eggnog.

Even Dad shook his hand, with Dean utterly mortified by his side, and nodded at him in approval.

When the introductions had quieted down and Castiel’s presence was no longer so much of a novelty, Dean was able to pull him aside into the living room and crowd him against the bookcase by the doorway, sighing into the crook of his neck. “You ok?” he asked him.

Castiel nodded. “I like your family very much, Dean.”

Dean smiled, small and secret to himself, “Good. They like you too, you know.”

Castiel flushed a little, and Dean loved the look of it. “I’m glad.”

There was a little giggle behind them, and Jo and Sam squeaked when they found they were caught. “Ho, ho, ho, you two,” Jo leered, nodding above their heads.

Dean glanced up and saw that he and Cas were standing directly beneath a bushel of mistletoe.

He waved a hand at her. “Aw, get out of here, Joanna Beth. Before I sit on you,” he threatened.

The meddlesome younger ones left, and Dean turned back to Castiel. “Not sure if you’re familiar with this tradition,” he said, leaning closer to him, putting a hand on his hip. It was more to steady himself, not Castiel. No, Cas was an immovable mass of stardust and divinity – he didn’t need grounding.

He met Dean’s gaze with a twinkling, sly look of his own. “Oh, I’m perfectly familiar,” he assured Dean. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pulled him in, their noses brushing together.  
“Good,” was all Dean got out, before a pair of warm lips pressed against his.

 

Cas held his hand under his mother’s dining room table.

When they were asked later how they met, Dean got to answer, “We met in a bar,” like it was the most typical of romances. But whatever they had, it was the opposite of ordinary.


End file.
